SONNET. LXX. Fresh spring the herald of loues mighty king, In whose cote armour richly are displayd all sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring in goodly colours gloriously arrayd: Goe to my loue, where she is carelesse layd, yet in her winters bowre not well awake: tell her the ioyous time wil not be staid vnlesse she doe him by the forelock take. Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make, to wayt on loue amongst his louely crew: where euery one that misseth then her make, shall be by him amearst with penance dew. Make hast therefore sweet loue, whilest it is prime, for none can call againe the passed time.